What If The Storm Ends?
by poisonnwine
Summary: Spencer Hastings has lost her memory through a terrible accident, and has forgotten the last three years of her life; including getting engaged. Although, she has more of a spark with a special carpenter, than her own forgotten-fiance. AU. Multi-Chapter.
1. Chapter 1

a/n: hi, so... first, i want to say that I saw something like this on here, and I am NOT stealing that idea, I promise. I actually started this a VERY long time ago. Probably summer time? I don't know. Way before I saw the similar plot line on here? So, yeah. I promise I'm not stealing any ones plot, okay?

Basically I have a lot of ideas for this story, but I don't know. I'm still a little weary about it. Tell me what you think! ? I know I always start things and erase them or never finish them, but idk, we will see how this goes. LOL.

Also, title from: The Lightning Strike (_What If the Storm Ends?)_because a) I really had no idea what to call it b) so I chose a song c) and hmm, the song doesn't really have anything to do with the plot, but the line, "what if the storm ends?" kind of does? Because...well, I can't say, but I don't know, maybe you'll see what I'm seeing when you know what the _storm _is, and yeah.

* * *

"There is so much about my fate that I cannot control, but other things do fall under the jurisdiction. I can decide how I spend my time, whom I interact with, whom I share my body and life and money and energy with. I can select what I can read and eat and study. I can choose how I'm going to regard unfortunate circumstances in my life-whether I will see them as curses or opportunities. I can choose my words and the tone of voice in which I speak to others. And most of all, I can choose my thoughts."  
― Elizabeth Gilbert

Chapter One: The Carpenter

Spencer Hastings keeps her eyes low to avoid the eye contact of the strange woman with blonde hair, whom writes down something in her note pad approximately every twelve seconds. She has been coming to her for two weeks now; apparently therapy can help bring back memories. It is exercise for the mind, her doctor told her. Although, Spencer wasn't seeing much improvement. Nor did she see the point. Her therapist wasn't even doing anything. She was just asking her the same questions each session. "What was your last memory before everything goes blank?" Spencer would then proceed to tell her.

She was at the Fonder's Day Festival with her friends when it began to rain, and they were forced to go back to their dorms. It was her first year of law school. That is what she told her the first time and it seemed to be enough. The second time, she asked her to describe the event a little bit more thoroughly. "What kind of smells were there? Name the people who were with you? What were you thinking?" She was able to go into pretty good detail because she had a photographic memory, but nonetheless, she still couldn't remember what she needed to remember.

"I'm going to say a word, and you're going to say another word that reminds you of that word, okay Spencer?" her therapist looks up, her tone patronizing.

"Okay, Mrs. Wellington," Spencer mocks.

"Sandra."

"Okay, _Sandra_."

"Tomato."

"Ketchup."

"Blanket."

"Sleep."

"Library."

"Books."

"Old Movies."

"Rosemary's Baby."

"Boat."

"Titanic."

"Danger."

"Everywhere."

"Safe."

"Danger."

Her therapist makes a sort of pondering hum as she sketches something in her notepad. She sucks in her lips, and scrunches up her face a little, "Spencer, were you in a good state at this festival? How were you feeling? Not about the rides, and the smells, and the rain, but how were you _really _feeling? What was your overall mood throughout the last few days you remember?"

"Um…I guess I was a little stressed out."

"That's it?"

Spencer shrugs, "I guess."

Her therapist doesn't say anything.

"Why?"

"It's just that all of your answers are pretty dark."

"I wouldn't call ketchup dark…"

"Yes, well…" her therapist responds, "you know what I'm referring to."

"I don't see why this has to do with anything?"

"It's just, maybe if you got through whatever is going on right now, then you would be able to persevere and pull forward, and continue on with your life."

"What's going on with my life right now, is that I can't remember the last three and half years of my life!" she yells, her breathing heavy.

Her therapist stares at her, blinking, giving her a look a parent would to a child when they were misbehaving. Spencer sucks in a breath, "I'm sorry, but you want me to be honest. There it is—honesty."

"No, don't be. It's understandable. You're upset. And angry. And looking for someone to blame."

"I don't blame anyone," Spencer shoots bitterly. She doesn't mean to sound so catty, but it just came out that way. "I don't blame anyone," she repeats the words a little bit more softly.

"You don't blame yourself, do you?"

"That's ridiculous."

"I'm glad you say that," Her therapist tells her, writing another something down in her note pad, a tiny glimmer of a smile glossed on her face. Spencer doesn't say anything in return; she simply just lets herself drift like she has been doing the last couple weeks. Why does her life have to be one disaster after another? Why can't she just get a break?

"So, Spencer, our session is over, but I will be seeing you next week."

"Yeah," Spencer replies, standing up to give a handshake to the woman. "Thank you," Spencer says half heartedly, grabbing her purse off of the chair she was sitting in seconds before.

She walks up to the car that she is sure hasn't left the space since she went in there, and slumps in the seat, awkwardly. The man watches her for a second before speaking. "How'd it go?" he asks, after a moment's hesitation.

She doesn't look at him, but her response is like lightning, "good, I guess."

"That's good."

And that is the whole conversation. Neither says anything as the car begins to move, starting the journey to her parent's house, where she is staying.

He parallel parks and the car comes to an easy stop as they arrive in front of her parent's house. It has never felt like home, but she is grateful for it. It is something familiar, and in these dark days of emptiness, she needs that feeling of familiarity more than she cares to admit.

"Thanks for driving me," Spencer tells the man awkwardly, forcing a smile.

He nods, hoisting up his own façade of a smile at her.

She feels bad, she does. She knows she should be trying harder to remember, for his sake at least. She can't imagine how heartbroken he must be. His fiancé doesn't even remember his proposal—or anything for that matter. She didn't even know his name for the first couple days. But it isn't like she is in the scene. She feels like she is watching it, on a movie or a TV show, feeling sympathy for the poor guy, but nothing more.

That's all she feels for him. Nothing else.

She doesn't _know_ him. She can't feel his pain. All she feels is her own. She has her own reasons for wanting to remember the past four years of her life, and she has to say, remembering her fiancé isn't one of them. Perhaps she is being selfish. Maybe if she was Aria Montgomery—the hopeless romantic, writer, whom wears her heart on her sleeve—this situation would be different. But she is not Aria Montgomery, she is Spencer Hastings; the cynical, neurotic, over achiever, whose belief in love is nonexistent. At least she thought she was that person. But apparently Spencer Hastings has changed.

She holds her head, feeling a headache coming on. She should get out of this stranger's—her _fiancé, _Andrew Campbell's,car.

"You okay?" he says in a soft voice, reaching over to her, but not touching her. He made the mistake of touching her a couple days ago. She freaked out on him. Once again, she felt bad, but it was just sympathy.

She leans away from him a little, nodding, pulling her hands to her lap, "just—sometimes I get these headaches," she mumbles, not daring to look at him. He is always looking at her with an intense gaze, and she can't deal with that right now.

"Okay," he seems defeated, letting his arm fall back to his side.

A beat.

"Do you want me to walk you up there?"

"No, it's fine," Spencer immediately reclines, still not making eye contact with him. She stares out the window at her childhood house instead.

"All right," he answers, sighing.

Spencer says her goodbye, offering another half-ass smile, and leaves his car. He stays there until he sees she gets inside, like she is a twelve year old going to her friend's house, and he is her father. She shakes her head, trying to stop herself from getting annoyed. He is just trying to be a good…. Good _fiancé_, she guesses.

"I'm home," she shouts into the emptiness.

She wonders if her parents are even here. They were never around during her childhood, why would they be around now? They took care of her the first couple days, but as the days goes on, she sees less and less of them.

A small, but genuine smile forms on her face. She has been craving the quiet all day.

She walks over to the kitchen, letting her purse fall on the counter. She searches the pantry for a cup.

Maybe she'll take a nap. Turn off her annoying phone that seems to never stop beeping. Maybe she'll go somewhere—somewhere _alone. _She doesn't remember the last time she did anything alone, but then again she doesn't remember much of anything. She laughs silently at her own morbid joke as she pulls a cup out from the pantry. Turning around, a shriek escapes her mouth.

She nearly drops her glass. A man stands at the end of the hallway. She doesn't know this man—well maybe she does, but she surely does not _remember _this man.

She sets her glass down on the counter, feeling shaky. She crosses her arms, keeping her distance from the stranger. Before she can yell, or curse, or do whatever the hell she was planning, he speaks.

"Sorry," he immediately apologies, moving from the hallway to the living space across the counter. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just—," he swallows, "I was looking for Mr. Hastings. Do you know where I could find him?"

Spencer eyes him, furrowing her brow. If he isn't sure of her relation with _ , _then he doesn't know her, does he? Which means…he doesn't know of the tragedy that clings to her.

He doesn't look at her with pity and concern like everyone else does.

"Um," she finally murmurs, "I'm not sure," she says. "Who are you exactly?" Spencer inquires, the crease above her eye refusing to part until she gets an identity of this man.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" he quickly reprehends himself, looking to the floor. He walks closer to Spencer, extending out his long, strong, arm, "Toby Cavanaugh. I'm going to be making some additions on this house during the next couple months."

Spencer shakes his hand. Well, there goes her place of familiarity. "Spencer," she greets. Feeling witty, she decides to make a joke, "house robber."

His hand falls from hers, and his eyes—his eyes that she did not notice the beauty of before—give her a quizzical look.

"Joke," she states. "I'm _Mr. Hastings' _daughter."

His eyes widen. Is he doing this because her father told him what happened to her? No. Why would her father do that? What happened to her is an embarrassment in his eyes. He would not just tell the carpenter he hired the tale of how his daughter got amnesia.

"Oh," he replies. "I didn't know he had two daughters," the carpenter replies.

"Yeah, my parents tend to pretend I don't exist…" Spencer says, turning around to pick up the glass from the counter. She goes to the sink, filling it with water.

"Oh..." his voice trails, seeming baffled by her outburst. "Well, I know how you feel. I've been there tons of times. I'm pretty sure my father likes his step daughter more than his actual son…" he goes on. There isn't self pity in his voice. He is seemingly just sharing something relatable.

She takes a sip of her water before setting it back down on the counter. She leans against the granite, eying him. She wants to talk to him. He is the only person who doesn't have a look of pity in his eyes when talking to her. The only one who doesn't treat her like she is made of glass.

She struggles with what to say, desperately trying to hang on to this conversation, "sometimes I wish I was just put up for adoption," she sighs. She knows it is a morbid thought—something normally she would never confess, let alone to a complete stranger, but she needs this to continue, and besides, she doesn't remember ever having someone who understood.

He stays quiet for a moment, "there isn't one memory you would regret not having?"

Spencer swallows. The question is heavy on her considering her circumstance, but she lets it ponder in her head anyhow.

She thinks of when she was little and how her sister, Melissa, and she were actually close. It was before boys and academics and trophies. They were so little that Spencer doesn't even know how she still remembers it. They would play all day in their grandmother's beach house. They would perform magic shows, Melissa always being the magician, and Spencer always the lovely assistant.

"I guess so," she shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant about it. But thinking about losing those memories on the top of the memories she has already lost, makes her emotional. Knowing is better than not knowing, any day. She suddenly regrets her words. He is right.

"Do you want some water? Or anything?" she asks, desperate to change the subject, but still have him in her presence.

He looks conflicted.

"I really should try to find your father," he looks away, clearly struggling between staying with her and going on an endless search for her father. "It seems kind of unprofessional, doesn't it?" he looks back at her.

"I'm not going to _tell _on you Toby," she leans over the counter, setting her clasped hands on the granite.

He still doesn't look convinced.

"I'll tell you what…if he shows up, I'll cover for you."

He stares at her, looking so hard not to give in, but eventually he caves.

"Fine," he sighs, "but...if I lose this job, my boss will be _livid_."

She waves him off, "it will be fine." If her father catches Toby and her having lunch, she will just tell him she felt a psychotic meltdown coming on, and she needed to distract herself. He will probably just be glad it was the carpenter, not him.

He sits in a chair, and offers her a smile. Then she does something that surprises herself. She settles her hands on his. Her eyes widen. What the hell is she doing? She pats his hands, giving him a nervous smile, "it'll be fine," the reassuring words make a cameo again.

She backs away, turning immediately around to the pantry, mostly to hide her embarrassment. Why is she so embarrassed? It was just a friendly gesture, but yet she feels the temperature in her cheeks rising? And was that a spark she felt when her hands brushed his? No. No, no, no it couldn't be. She was simply just using him for a decent conversation. There was too much going on in her head for thoughts like this to occur.

She clears her throat, finally regaining herself. "Do you like toast?" she asks, pulling out a cup. She waits for an answer as she fills the cup with water.

"I like whatever's convenient," he responds in a joyful tone.

She places the glass of water in front of him, "well, toast is pretty convenient."

"Then I love it," he smirks, raising the glass of water to his lips.

They stare at each other, both with animated glows.

She lets the moment between them linger for a few extra seconds before turning around to prepare the lunch for the two. It is the first time in days that she has felt normal. She can't help but wish this moment—this _feeling_ could just last. She knows it won't though. She can't just pretend her life is _this. _She knows that she owes it to her fiancé, to her friends, to _herself, _to at least try to remember.

As meaningless as it seems to be, she needs to try to work with her therapist, with Andrew, with everyone else. She needs to make things work. The carpenter had a point. There are some memories that she would never wish to erase. Surely, there has to be some good moments that have happened to her in the years she cannot remember. She must try to get those memories back.

But for right now, she'll live in this moment. She'll have her moment of peace with the carpenter, and live in normality, knowing it will soon be over.

She grabs the slices of toast from the toaster, putting two slices on each plate. "Do you like jam…or butter or… anything?" she asks, not turning to look at him. She goes to the refrigerator, pulling out the butter and strawberry jam.

He tells her yes and she proceeds to smother the slices of toast with jam and butter. She places the plate of toast out in front of him, offering a smile. He gives her a smile back, making her feel warm inside.

"Oh!" she immediately snaps, "do you want any coffee?"

He lets out a chuckle, then a sigh, "I feel like you're waiting on me."

"Trust me; I'm not making this coffee for you. I'm only offering to be nice," she gives him a coy smile as she begins to prepare to make a pot of coffee. "Whether you choose to accept the offer is completely up to you," her voice goes on as she turns around once more.

She hears him sigh, "okay. Then, yes I will have a cup, please."

A smile of victory springs out across her face as continues to make the pot of coffee.

A couple, long, excruciating, minutes pass before the coffee is done. She pours two cups, and calls him an amateur when he asks if she has cream and sugar. When she gives the carpenter what he requested, she teases him, "I'm beginning to feel like I'm _waiting_ on you, Toby." She adds a smirk to her statement a second after, making sure he knows she is only joking.

She finally sits down at a seat across from him, and takes a bite of her toast. She notices Toby has not touched his meal. "Is something wrong with the toast? I mean I know I'm not the world's best chef, but I thought I was capable of toasting bread…" she eyes him, taking a sip of her coffee.

"No, of course not," he chuckles, stirring his coffee with a spoon to mix the sugar and cream. He looks up at her, setting the spoon on the counter. "I was just waiting for you to sit down," he tells her.

She feels odd. The action is so…_sweet_ that she doesn't know how to even process it. "Oh, well…" she begins, not knowing what to really say, "that's nice of you," she decides.

He smiles at her, taking a sip of his coffee. His smile parts from him once the liquid makes it way down his throat. He pulls the cup away, setting it on the counter. "Wow," he states, a crease in his brow. "That is very strong," he notes.

She smirks at him, taking her own cup of coffee and letting its heavenly taste wash over her taste buds. She sets it back down, "just how I like it. If you can't handle it, you can always make another pot," she hums, picking up a slice of toast from her plate, and biting into it.

"No," he shakes his head, "I'll be fine. I'll just…get used to it," he murmurs, biting into a piece of toast. He stares up at Spencer, "you have very strong taste buds."

She shrugs a shoulder, a smile of smug taking place on her lips. "I've been drinking the stuff since I was twelve," she admits, indifferently. She bites into her piece of toast.

"Wow..." he muses.

She smiles to herself, spreading the jam out more thoroughly with her knife.

"So you've been drinking it for how many years…?"

The question's intention is clear. He is looking for a subtle way to ask her age.

She is about to say ten, but she quickly remembers that is not the truth. Three years have passed, even if she can't remember them. She may feel twenty two, but she is actually twenty five. She quickly does the math in her head, "thirteen years," the words slip from her mouth. "What about you?" she looks at him, a curious look in her golden eyes.

"How long have I been drinking coffee?" he questions.

She gives him a short nod.

"hmmm," he gives thought to the question. "I started drinking it during my first year of college, so….eight years? Maybe. Definitely not as long as you," he grins at her, taking a sip of coffee.

She drops her gaze, but keeps her smile. Well, she doesn't have much control over her smile. She can't seem to tame it for some reason. She doesn't know what it is about Toby. He is different…different than anyone else she knows.

"What do we have here?" the words enter her ears, making her smile weigh down into a terrible frown. It is her father, and from the sound of it, he is not pleased. Spencer suddenly curses herself for using Toby for a decent conversation. What if he gets in trouble?

She quickly stands up, greeting her father before he can say anything to the carpenter, "dad," she exclaims, her words laced with anxiety. "I offered lunch to Toby. He was looking for you, and I told him he could wait…" her words fumble out, unorganized.

"_Toby_, huh?" he acknowledges the first name basis, a twisted smile on his face. "Well, _Mr. Cavanaugh_, here I am. What can I do for you?"

Spencer swallows. Why the hell does she always have to screw things up? She shoots an apologetic look at Toby as he stuffs his last piece of toast in his mouth. He doesn't look mad, or upset, or anything. She is relieved.

The two begin to talk about the work Toby is doing. The men walk out of the kitchen, leaving her to her lonesome. As they walk away, Toby shoots one last look at her. She keeps his gaze until he is forced to look away. She isn't sure what the glint in his eyes meant. Sadness? Longing? Was it supposed to be a silent goodbye? She shakes her head at the thought. It doesn't matter.

* * *

a/n: idk? dumb or not dumb? i have another plot that i am thinking about writing about, but idk...i think i like this one better. What do you think of this?


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: so, yeah. This was actually a quick update. Whoever thought I was capable of that? I have the next two chapters written, and I don't know how to pace myself, so expect to see that soon. This chapter is more about Toby btw. ;) I'm pretty much going to switch POV's a lot, and I think it will be pretty balanced. I probably won't do it EVERY TIME, but so far it has been Spencer/Toby/Spencer/Toby, so yeah. In the end, there might be more of Spencer than Toby, who knows.

Thanks so much for the reviews, you guys are awesome! I'm really glad you're interested in this story. I hope you like the new chapter :)

* * *

Chapter Two:

Animated Movies

Toby Cavanaugh thought his days of thinking about women were over. He thought that door was closed. He thought his heart had gone awry, refusing to let anyone in. But today he was proven wrong. He was shown that his heart was not just serving as a basic function to live. It began to beat again. The ice around it began to thaw, and it was because of _her_.

It isn't fair to say his heart doesn't function in a way that propels love. He has someone in his life he loves very much, whom he loves more than anything. But that's it. That's all his heart has been beating for. Until _her_—Spencer Hastings.

It isn't that he is in love with her anything, but the potential is there. He can see himself falling for her. Maybe it is ridiculous to say. He barely knows her—she could be a lunatic. But there is something about her; something that causes his stomach to do somersaults and his vocal cords to hitch a pitch. They instantly connected.

"Toby, so, what do you think?" his best friend's voice breaks his thought process.

"Oh," he clocks into his surroundings. Two faces are staring at him, both of their eyes locked on him in anticipation. He clears his throat, "yeah, sounds great…" Toby murmurs, an uncertainness in his tone. He knows his friends will catch on.

"See Holden? Toby's on my side," his best friend smiles smugly at his other, shaggy haired, friend.

"Toby wasn't even listening," he rolls his eyes.

His best friend faces Toby, an annoyed look on his face, "you hang out with us _one _day a week, and you can't even listen? Fucking Christ, Toby," the man shakes his head, swinging a beer bottle to his lips.

"I was listening…" Toby defends himself, although it is a lie. He literally has no clue what his friends' conversation is even about.

"You know what? Whatever. Toby still agreed with me. Therefore it is destined that _I _should be the one to go, and talk to her," his best friend argues with Holden.

"You only want to have sex with her!" Holden hisses, "I actually want to get to know her. We already have so much in common. She's reading a freaking material arts book. That is my _thing._"

"She's hot, that's _my_ thing. Plus, I saw her first."

Holden shakes his head, raising his beer to his mouth.

"No hot girl just comes to a bar and reads. She is waiting—waiting to be hit on."

"Why can't on be the one to hit on her?" Holden asks.

"Because I told you. I saw her first!"

"Come on Caleb," Toby finally cuts into the conversation, giving his best friend a glare. "Let him try it. It could lead to something special," Toby encourages.

"Haha! Yes! See!? Toby agrees with _me,_" the shaggy haired man laughs in victory.

"Come on, man!" Caleb glares at him, "I thought you had my back? Whatever happened to best friends stick together?"

Toby doesn't respond he just shrugs, sort of. Caleb sighs, moving his hard, copper eyes to Holden. "Fine," he grumbles. "Go," he hisses.

Holden jumps jollily out of his seat, practically skipping to the material arts girl.

"What's up with you?" Caleb demands.

"What do you mean?"

Caleb lets out a hearty laugh. "_It could lead to something special_," Caleb mocks his best friend. "Since when are you the love guru? Just a couple weeks ago you were telling Holden how love only leads to heartache; how you should never trust anyone with your heart because they'll stomp on it with spiked, _bedazzled_, heels."

"I was drunk when I said that, first of all. Second of all, if you don't recall, that was my ex-wife's wedding day. I was acting like a lunatic to put it in more accurate terms."

"That was my favorite version of you, to be honest. I wish you were like that _all _the time. Think of the loads of fun we would have," Caleb gets a dreamy look in his maple eyes. "I mean I know you have your hook ups every now and then, but you know—if you were like that _all _the time…you would…you would be…"

"Like you?" Toby fills his thought.

"Exactly," a wicked smile dances across the man's face. "We could be each other's wingmen. God, Toby, can you imagine it? How much we would get laid?"

Toby rolls his eyes, "If I was like that all the time, I would literally _despise _myself. I can't act that way, you know I can't. I have a daughter, in case you forgot. She doesn't need Hugh Hefner as a father."

Caleb groans, "You are so impeccably boring sometimes, I don't even know how we're friends. And that kid, she's like the biggest cock block, known demand."

"You love her," Toby immediately fires back. "Don't pretend you don't. You may hate everything else in existence, but you love her," he murmurs, sure of it. "And also, Caleb," he looks at his friend, pasting on a devilish smile, "if you say another word about my daughter, you can expect those pretty little caramel eyes of yours to be black."

Caleb scowls, groaning as he changes his gaze to Holden. He seems to be really hitting it off with material arts girl.

"Whatever, man. She's all right. I certainly like her more than you," he comments.

Toby laughs into his drink.

"There is something else though…" Caleb murmurs, returning his quizzical, brown eyes to Toby. "Something about you tonight…" he goes on.

Toby just stares at him, keeping a neutral expression.

He has known Caleb for a long time. He is his oldest friend. They met in seventh grade. Caleb came from Ohio, and before that, Illinois, and _before that, _California. He went through several foster care systems. He always ended up getting sent back. When he came to Pennsylvania in seventh grade, he was finally out for good. He never got sent back. Although…they weren't exactly the best parents. They basically used him to get welfare. By the time Caleb was seventeen, he was living on his own—well not on his own, but with Toby. Toby, like Caleb, did not have the best relationship with his family. The two founded some crappy loft and managed to get by. Ever since then, they've been best friends. And over the amount of years they have spent together, Caleb has gotten to know Toby like the back of his hand.

"Nothing," Toby supplies, his eyes flicking to his beer. It is almost gone.

He can feel Caleb staring at him.

"Whatever," he eventually gives up. "I'm sure soon enough you'll be rambling on about whatever it is," he lets out in a neutral tone. "May as well enjoy the peace while it lasts," Caleb sighs, falling into a slouched position in his chair.

…

Sunday is Toby's favorite and least favorite day of the week.

On one hand, it is the day he gets to reunite with his daughter whom he has been without for a whole week. On another hand, it is the day he has to give his daughter away, to her mother—saying goodbye till next week. It just depends on the Sunday.

Luckily, today is a good Sunday. A Sunday that further explains why Sunday is his favorite of the week. He gets to see his daughter again. He gets to have her for a whole week. An entire seven days lies in front of them.

"Daddy," the little girl speaks up, carefully setting down the crayon next to her drawing.

"Yes, monkey?" he responds, glancing up at her

She giggles, creases forming next to her light, emerald eyes. "Why do you call me that? I'm not a monkey!" she exclaims.

"Really?" his eyebrows bunch together, setting down the menu. "Are you sure?" he inquires, inspecting her with his eyes.

"Absolutely, positively! Monkeys have _tails_," she states matter-of-factly.

He sighs, "I didn't want to tell you, but…" he lets his sentence die. He shakes his head, "no, I shouldn't…" he drops his head.

"What! What is it? Tell me!" she pleads.

"Well," he begins, "I didn't want to tell you till you were older, but you were actually born with a tail. The doctors managed to fix it, but they said that if you eat too many bananas…it will grow back," he tells her in the most sincere voice he can muster.

The expression on his daughter's face is priceless. He swallows his laughter, but is unable to contain his smile. But she doesn't seem to notice his grin, she is too engrossed with the new information just handed to her. "But…but I _always _eat bananas," her voice is quiet and fearful.

"I know," he nods. "But it is okay. You love monkeys, don't you? Don't you want to be one?"

She shakes her head furiously, her green eyes huge.

A laugh erupts from his throat.

"Are you lying?" she quips up in an angry tone.

"No. Why would I lie about that?"

"I don't know," she says, her eyes falling to the table, searching for an answer.

"It's okay. I'll still love you when you turn into a monkey," he promises.

"You're lying!" she accuses in a louder tone.

"Am I?" he challenges her. "I guess we'll just have to see…" his voice trails off.

His daughter is getting smarter and smarter by the minute. She used to be so gullible, believing anything Toby, or her mother, told her. They used to make up stories—outrageous, ridiculous, stories that couldn't possibly be true, yet believable to the little girl. It always lightened Toby's heart that the little girl could still see so much magic in the world.

"Now, you were going to ask me a question," he speaks up. "What was it?"

"Oh!" she exclaims, "oh yeah!" she goes on, seeming to forget everything he just told her. "I was just wondering…" she begins, seeming almost a little hesitant. What could a five year old be hesitant about? Usually they just blurt out everything. "Are you going to marry someone?" she asks.

The question completely throws him off. He never expected to hear those words coming from her mouth. "Um…why do you ask that?" he inquires.

"I dunno," she shrugs, her green eyes staring at the drawing in front of her, her hands spreading out the piece of paper. "Mommy married someone," she points out, looking at him curiously.

"That doesn't mean daddy is."

She beams at him, a grin unfolding on her face. "Good!" she exclaims. "I don't want to share you with anyone. When I'm at mommy's, she's always with Garret."

He internally groans. Was she seriously ignoring their daughter for her boyfrie—_husband_. "I promise that you'll always be my number one girl."

"Pinky promise?" a challenge glimmers in her eyes as she sets her elbow on the table, and holds out her tiny pinky towards him.

"Pinky promise," he declares, putting his pinky forward. She curls her pinky over his.

"Good," she sighs, slumping back in her chair. She begins to color again. So carefree and innocent. Toby wishes she could always live like this, but he knows it is impossible. One day she will grow up and have to face the cruel world as it is.

A waitress soon comes by and takes their orders. Like always, Toby orders his French toast and _like always, _his daughter orders her chocolate chip pancakes. It is a sort of tradition they have here. On the Sundays where he picks her up, they go to breakfast. The little girl has always been one for adventure so she always asks if they can go somewhere new. To go somewhere different every other Sunday would be nearly impossible, but Toby does his best. After breakfast the two go see a movie, and if there isn't a movie to see, rent one. Sundays are pretty laid back for the two.

Today's choice of cinema is _Frozen_. It is the newest Disney movie out. Apparently, _it is the best thing to ever happen, ever_. Well, that is what his daughter's friend said anyway. Ever since his daughter heard that review, she has been dying to see it. Although the movie is very girly and princessy, and definitely not aiming for men in their twenties, Toby is glad that his daughter waited to see it with him. He feels special. He loves creating memories with her. He loves seeing her face light up when she is happy, and he is almost sure she'll love this movie. She is obsessed with all things Disney.

"Daddy, do you think they will sing?" the little girl asks him as they wait in line. For a Sunday afternoon, it is strangely busy.

"Do they usually sing in Disney movies?

The little girl gives the question thought before nodding her head.

"Then, yes. I think there is a pretty good chance there will be some singing," he smiles down at her.

"And princesses, too?"

Nodding, his voice longs, "I can guarantee there will be princesses."

She lets out a sort of squeal of joy, making him grin.

"Toby!" a voice exclaims behind him. He turns around, an instant smile framing his face.

"And Tabby!" the brunette beams, squatting down at the little girl's height. She spreads her arms out, and she doesn't even have to ask for a hug, the small blonde is already on it. She holds on to the woman tightly, obviously not wanting to let go.

"You're getting so big!"

"Why do people keep saying that?" she extends from the woman's hold.

"Because it is true!"

"But I'm not fat!" she argues, her forehead wrinkling.

The brunette laughs, "of course not, silly," she pokes her in the stomach, producing a giggle from five year old. Her manicured hand plays with blond waves, "I mean you're getting _taller._"

"Well, why not just say that?" the little girl counters.

The woman smiles at her, "I'll do that next time."

She stands up, this time enveloping Toby in an embrace. "We're having lunch, soon," she whispers to him. "We have things to talk about…" her voice trails. Toby cringes. He knows what she is referring to.

"Is Emily going to watch the movie with us?" the little girl asks her father.

"Actually…" he begins.

"What movie are you guys seeing?" Emily cuts him off.

"Frozen!" she beams at the woman, her voice going up a couple octaves.

"Hmm, well I was going to see another movie, but that actually seems a lot more interesting. But do you mind if one of my friend tags along?"

"Sure! As long as I get to eat their popcorn!"

"Tabby," Toby scolds his daughter, mostly sighing.

"Yes, I'm sure she won't have a problem sharing her popcorn," Emily bellows a laugh.

"Do I know her?"

"You've met her, but I'm not sure you'll remember her. Does Paige ring a bell?"

"Wait, what bell?" the little girl gets frazzled.

Another laugh from the brunette.

"It's an expression! When I say her name, do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Why didn't you just say that the first time!" she exasperates. She squints her minty eyes, "does she have brown hair?"

"Yes," Emily nods.

"Does she teach kids how to swim?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, I think I know who that is," the little girl has a proud look on her face.

"Good, I'm glad you remember."

Emily's special _friend, _Paige Mc'Cullers,greets them in the line only a few seconds later. Her hair is pinned back in a low ponytail, and she is wearing a leather jacket, contrary to how warm it is. She doesn't seem to mind that they'll be spending their afternoon with singing animated princesses.

After the movie ended, when Paige, Emily, and Tabitha were coming out of the bathroom, Toby heard her name—_Spencer_. It came from Emily's mouth. Was it possible that it was the same Spencer he met a couple days ago? He wasn't sure. It didn't seem likely. He decided to brush it off. Maybe he was just hearing things.

…

The next day he returns to work—the Hastings manor. The house is beautiful, well, he shouldn't use the word "house", it is more like a mansion. Their property stretches out to 8,500 square feet. He cannot even imagine having that much land.

He isn't really sure why they want an addition. The house is already huge. He doubts they even use this much space, but it gives him a job, so he cannot really complain.

He is about to knock on the door, but it opens before his knuckle can even meet the wood.

Spencer runs into him before he can get out of the way.

"Oh my god!" she immediately exclaims, jumping away. "I'm so sorry! I didn't even see you there," she hurries out, searching his eyes for any sign of resentment. There isn't any.

"It's fine," he responds, chuckling a little.

"I could have just bulldozed you right off the porch!" she goes on.

"Luckily you didn't," he says in a light voice.

She sighs, "God, I really am sorry," she apologizes again, frowning. Her doe brown eyes bore into him, making him feel self conscious.

"Really, it is okay. No harm done," he responds.

"I'm just in such a hurry," She seems irritated. She tugs her bag more on her shoulder, "which is why I am going to have to cut this conversation short."

"Don't worry about that. I'm sort of in a hurry, too. I'm kind of running late to work," he explains, hoping she'll catch on.

Her maple eyes widen in realization, "oh! Yeah," she laughs a little. "Want me to let you in?" she asks.

"That would be nice," he nods. "But if you're really running late then I can just knock and wait. Hopefully this time no one will try to knock me off the porch," his voice is teasing.

A timid smile rises on her features, her honey eyes fluttering away for a second. She seems to be in a different persona in that moment—one that is much less sure. But she is back soon enough, "no. If you do that, you'll probably just be waiting out here till August. My parents can't even here the doorbell sometimes," she rolls her eyes. "If they need any additions on this house, they need to add another doorbell, for like upstairs or something," she shakes her head as she turns to the door. She pulls her keys out of her purse, meeting the lock with a silver key.

The door unlocks, and she holds the door open for the man, a beautiful smile arises on her face as he takes a step inside. She follows in the house, and closes the door.

She begins to walk through the foyer. He isn't sure if he is supposed to follow, so he just stays put. She turns around after a minute, a look of confusion splattered across her face. "Aren't you coming?" the question slivers around him.

"Oh, yeah," he strides forward, "sorry, I didn't know…"

"It's okay," she gives him another smile, her hand cupping his shoulder.

That smile. It is like sneaking a peak at the world of magic.

She looks away and continues to walk, her hand back at her side.

"If I'm making you late, I apologize," he murmurs to her as they go through the house.

"What? No, it's fine!" he think what he is hearing is laughter (it sounds like orchestra of angels.) "You're, like, the politest person I've ever met," she stops at a doorway.

Their eyes beam back and forth, trapped in some realm of magnetic force.

"Well, you've only known me for, like, three days," he points out.

"Are you saying that you are going to disappoint me?"

"I didn't know I had any expectations," he shoots back.

She just smirks at him, her copper eyes becoming something of anonymity. Then, she just opens the doors, letting her father know _Mr. _C_avanaugh _is here. When she addresses him with that name, she gives him a knowing look, a teasing smile on her face. He smiles back at her before entering the room.

Neither say goodbye. And he is glad for that. They will see each other again.

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a/n: So, Toby has a kid! Hmm, any guesses on who the mother is? ;)

Leave me a review ! How do you feel about Tabby? About Toby having a child? And I love Taleb and Tomily and Paily, so I mean...sorry not sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

a/n: sooooo... thanks so much for the reviews! :) There wasn't as many as I hoped, but still, thank you so much to the ones who did! :) I wrote this chapter a little differently. It is first person point of view. Sometimes I like writing that way. If you absolutely hate this way of writing, tell me. I'll try to avoid writing it this way, if you feel that way. Anyways, thanks so much for the reviews :) Also, not much Spoby in this chapter. Sigh. Sorry. I promise things will explode soon.

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Chapter Three

"Happiness feels a lot like sorrow."

- The Fray; Happiness

"You're late," is the first thing he says to me, which produces a heedless eye roll.

"Yes, I may have lost my memory, but I didn't forget how to read a clock! I know I am," I grumble out, slamming the car door shut a little too hard.

He sighs, his hands clenching the steering wheel. He licks his lips, looking irritated as hell, and stares out the window. "I just—I know you don't want to go to these things, but Spence, there good for you. They'll help."

"I know, but I don't see why you, or my _fiancé, _or my parents, or anyone should have to drive me. I'm perfectly capable," I cross my arms, keeping my stare on the house.

"You should try being nicer to him," my brother, _or half brother_, obliges.

"I am nice to him!" I exclaim, moving my attention on him.

He cocks his head to the side, giving me a pointed look.

"What do you want from me? I'm trying my best…" I sigh, exasperated by all of this.

"I know you are," he claims, his voice becoming soft. "You're a real fighter, Spence. You're probably the strongest person I've ever known. You've been through a lot, but he's my friend. And he's kind of going through a lot, too."

"I'm trying to remember," I say, my voice breaking. Sometimes I get really emotional about this, because no one understands. They all think I'm just being selfish. Maybe I was before, but I'm not anymore. On Friday, I decided to make a change. I would try to be better—to give more effort in remembering. I just wish people would have a little more understanding with me. They have no idea how much it hurts—what the feeling of not remembering a portion of your life is like. I feel like screaming most of the time. "I just—_can't."_

"I know," he says after a minute, "I just—I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're going through."

I breathe out a thank you, because I don't need him on my back, too. My parents already give me a hard enough time about it all. They think I'm wasting my time—that I could be graduating from Law School right now if I would just remember it all—as if it were that easy.

He drives me to my therapy session, and a normal conversation spurs up between us. I'm relieved. So much talk of memory-loss gets nauseating after awhile.

"Bye Jason. Thanks for driving me, even though I'm—" I begin to say, but his words chop into mine.

"Perfectly fine doing it on your own, I know. I'll talk to your parents about it."

"I'm not twelve, you know," I reply dryly. "But thanks," I say, because it is the first time I feel like anyone has believed in me since the accident. I almost forgive him for accusing me of being rude to Andrew. _Almost._

I go into therapy and Dr. Wellington, or _Sandra, _as she always beckons I should call her, already has that annoying clip board out. Every time she writes something in it, I just want to go over there and rip the page out. Why should she have documents about me? Who the hell is she? She is just some random person. I've only known her for a couple months. Why does she get the privilege to break in to my mind?

I take a breath, reminding myself that I promised I would try. And if I am going to try to remember, I should probably start actually opening up to Sandra. She is certified in psychology. She can probably help me more than anyone else can.

"Take a seat, Spencer," she nods toward the chair.

I follow her decree and take a seat, clasping my hands together. I put on my best smile, "Hello Sandra."

"Wow," her eyes widen. "Something good must've happened this weekend? Yeah?"

The first thing I think of is that carpenter. I curse myself. "Not much," I shrug. "I just," I take in a breath. "I'm ready to remember."

A pleasing smile comes across the middle aged woman's face, "I've been waiting for you to say that—or at least show it. You've covered the first part; now let's put those words into action. Being ready to face your turmoil, is the first step to recover from it."

We begin our session, like we always do; her asking me my last memory. Me, telling her it was the Fonder's Day festival. I tell her who I was with, and what the smells and sights were. But unlike all the times before, this time I tell her how I felt. How I _actually _felt that day. Not what I told everyone that day. Not what I told Dr. Wellington. I tell her the truth. I bring down my wall.

"I wasn't in a good place. I was more than stressed—it was like, I don't know. I was just so overwhelmed. I felt like I was going to break down at any second. No one was in my corner…I just…felt _alone_."

"And how do you feel right now?"

"Not like that, but...not good, either."

"Does that have to do with what happened?"

"Of course it does."

We continue the session, and I feel really emotional, and reckless. I cry. I let myself cry in front of her! It is embarrassing, but I know if I am going to get any better, this won't be the last time she sees my tears.

I leave the session, feeling a little better than I did before I went in. It's a nice feeling—getting things off your chest. It makes me feel lighter, in a way.

I try to find Jason's car, but I can't find it anywhere. I bring out my phone to call him, and I see I already have a text from him.

_"Andrew's picking you up. Sorry. He begged me. – J"_

"Spencer!" a voice calls out.

I look around, and see Andrew. He is leaning on his ford focus, wearing a cardigan, even though it is already warm enough outside to go without long sleeves. I walk over to him, offering a smile, because I'm in a good mood.

"Hey," I murmur.

He's sort of my acquaintance now, I guess. But it always just feels weird because we are supposed to be engaged. Or we were engaged. I don't know if we are still. I don't wear my ring, but he wears his. He seems to get it.

"Sorry, I know you were expecting Jason," he sighs, "but I don't have classes today, and I figure that maybe…we can hang out a little."

I take in a breath, "I'm kind of hungry."

"Great!" he grins, opening the passenger door for me.

I settle inside his car, and hear the door slam beside me.

He is soon in the driver's seat, buckling up his seat belt, and starting the engine.

We go to some pretentious restaurant. Like really, really, pretentious. Like, I've never seen anything quite like it before. Does it make me pretentious to judge it like this? I'm not sure. But I feel like I'm surrounded by pompous people. Arrogant, judging, people. I'm not even wearing anything for a restaurant like this! But I don't complain, because I feel bad for him, and he is trying to show me what we used to be like. In a way, it's sort of sentimental. He's sweet, really. He just…doesn't seem to think things through…

This place reminds me of somewhere my parents would bring me. I cringe. Was I on the verge of becoming them? Is this who I am now? Did law school really do this to me? It couldn't have. Maybe they just have really good food.

As our lunch date proceeds, I learn the food is okay, but outrageously overpriced. This food sure isn't quality enough to be priced like that!

I try to complain about the prices with Andrew once we leave, but he doesn't really think anything of it. He just shrugs, saying it doesn't really matter. I guess it doesn't when you have money coming out of your pockets. I question how I managed to pay for all of that. Then a horrible thought enters my mind.

"Andrew?" I say on the way back to my parent's house.

"Yeah, Spencer?"

"How did I pay…for all that?"

"Your parents' allowance," he answers like it is the most obvious thing in the world. He gives me a look of incredulity, an amused smile on his face.

I shrink back in my seat, afraid to ask anything else. My parents paid for my college tuition (well, the tuition that was not covered by my scholarships,) but everything else…I was doing all on my own. I sure as hell wasn't getting any allowances. I felt bad enough getting a loan from them! Oh, God. Who am I?

Andrew drops me off, telling me that today was really fun. He even hugs me. I hug him back, too. It is a little awkward, but comforting…in a way.

I go back into my parent's house, and find my sister, Melissa sitting at the counter, eating some fro-yo. She has been living here for a while. She's pregnant, and her husband is in London, doing some work, I don't know the details, but I can't help but feel bad for Melissa. She is already falling into what my parents' marriage is like.

"Hey, Spence," Melissa greets me.

She has been strangely nice to me. It feels unnatural, but I'm not going to complain about it.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" I ask. She is eight months pregnant. I'm kind of glad that I'll actually be able to remember her giving birth.

"Pregnant," Melissa responds, a chuckle escaping her lips after.

I offer a smile.

"You were out later than usual," she observes, putting a spoon of yogurt in her mouth.

"Andrew took me to some restaurant," I explain, coming closer, and dropping my bag on the counter.

"Oh. Was it _The Revenue_?"

I narrow my eyes on her, "how'd you know?" I ask skeptically.

"It was your favorite restaurant," she explains, sucking on her spoon.

God, it was? My self-loathing is increasing by the minute.

I need to sort this out. I need to talk to someone who is in my side. Someone who has always been with me. My mind wanders to three people.

But, first, there is someone else I want to talk to. Just because I like talking to him. I like having someone who doesn't know my past. "Is Toby still here?" I ask Melissa.

"What? The carpenter?" a wrinkle forms above her dark eyes. "I think so," she tells me. "Why?" she sounds more disgusted than confused. Typical Melissa; looking down on anyone who doesn't make 100,000 dollars per year, or more.

I gulp, "I have sort of befriended him."

She gives me a pointed look.

"What? I can't make friends?" I snap at her. Suddenly I feel like I'm in high school, again—both of us living at home; Melissa frowning at my choices.

She shrugs, "I'm just—surprised," she mumbles, looking at her spoon as it collects the lone yogurt from the sides of the cup.

"Surprised about what?"

"Nothing, Spencer," she sighs, getting up to throw away the empty yogurt cup. She gives me one last look before leaving the room, "I'm just not used to this—_you_. It's been awhile since you've acted this way."

"What way?" I demand, but it lacks conviction. It sounds too whiny for my liking.

"It doesn't matter. You'll get through this, and it will all be behind you. It's not your fault," she gives me a somber smile.

I don't smile back.

She walks away and I roll my eyes. What the hell was that about?

I go to the kitchen, neglecting the thought of Melissa and her ambiguous comments. Maybe the carpenter will be thirsty. I decide to make some lemonade for him.

I go outside to the worksite, which is really basically nothing right now. They are just clearing out the weeds, plants and foliage.

"Hey there," I greet him. He steps up from what he is doing, brushing the dirt of his gloves, and then taking them off.

"Hey," he replies, a smile on his face.

We walk a little away from all the dirt and work. I hold out my hand, directing his eyes to the patio table beside us, "I made some lemonade for you and your men."

He laughs, looking southward. He beams up at me, "that was really nice of you. You didn't have to do that," he says sweetly.

"My father has never really been diplomatic. I doubt that any of this is peaceful work," she goes on.

"Are you trying to get me in trouble? I'll bash on your father; my boss, and then you'll go tell him?" he accuses me, but I can he is only joking. At least, I hope he is.

"You caught me," I provide a smirk. He smiles at me.

"Seriously! Drink the lemonade. I promise it is not poisoned. In fact, I make a pretty good glass. Once, I earned forty seven dollars at a lemonade stand," I state proudly, swaying my linked hands a little.

He chuckles, "Just because you're a good entrepreneur, doesn't mean you make a product."

"Wow, rude, are we?" I laugh. "I go all out of my way to make a pitch of lemonade, and you insult me," I tsk, shaking my head, my lip smacking together.

"I'm sorry," he laughs, "I'll drink the lemonade. I'm sure it is amazing."

"It is," I state, staring into those beautiful eyes of him. Ugh, beautiful. Is that too far? It is true though. They are so intense. And not intense in the way Andrew's stares are—there is more to it; I just can't decipher what the difference is.

"Enjoy your lemonade," I roll my shoulders back before departing from the man. My play time is over. I need to get back to the misery of my life.

…

I sit in front of Aria Montgomery. She has been, sort of, weird around me. I mean, everyone has, but, I don't know, I expected more from Aria. She is my best friend, and all. Well, one of them, anyways.

She stirs her tea, adding sugar, and what not. She hasn't really said anything to me the whole time I've been here. She is probably confused on what to say, just like everyone else.

"Aria, there's a reason I'm here," I confess. "It wasn't just to hangout."

Aria looks at me, a bewildered look on her face. Her hazel eyes take up almost a half of her face at how much they gape. "Oh, really?" she says after a minute, her fingers stalling in stirring. "What it is?" she inquires.

"I just—who was I?"

"What?"

"Who was I? Before the accident…" I explain.

"Oh," Aria gulps, looking down at her tea. She sets her spoon down, and takes a sip of it. She sets it down before talking, "I don't know, Spence," she sounds weary.

"What?"

"I don't know how to explain it," she swallows, her eyes fidgeting back and forth. "We've all changed," she explains. "I mean, none of us are who we were three— three and half years ago."

"I know, I mean obviously, but how much did I change?"

She looks down, "a lot, Spence."

I swallow. Is it really that bad? "Please, Aria, just rip off the bandage. How horrible am I now? An exact model of how the Hastings should be? _Worse_?"

"What?" she darts her eyes up. "What makes you think that?"

"What _doesn't_ make me think that?" I sigh, removing my eyes off of the small brunette across from me. "Andrew took me to some restaurant today—apparently it is my _favorite_. I love it so much that Melissa even knows…and if Melissa knows, then," I shiver, shaking my head a little.

_"The Revenue?"_

I laugh because of course Aria knows, too. "Yeah," my voice trails in disgust. "Everyone was so freaking pretentious."

"Your engagement party was actually held there…" Aria confesses.

"Of course it was," I sigh.

"Spence, I don't know what to say," Aria speaks up after a minute. "I just, we haven't been that close lately."

"What?"

"We sort of drifted."

"Why?"

Aria looks away, and I know it is because of me. Of course it is because of me. What the hell did I do?

"We all just changed," she shrugs. "I don't know. I don't really talk to Hanna or Emily anymore, either. I talk to Emily a tad more. Hanna and I occasionally go out to lunch. But, I don't know. It isn't your fault, really, it isn't. I mean…" she gulps. "People drift apart…" she sighs.

"Do I talk to any of you guys?"

Aria looks away again, "I mean," she looks up, a sort of hopeful look in her eyes, "you invited us to your engagement party."

I sigh, feeling nauseated. Maybe I don't want to remember. My motivation has decreased so much throughout the duration of the day.

"Probably to just rub it in…" I stare at the countertop, my voice void of emotion.

"Han actually said that," Aria muses. But I can tell from the look on her face she regrets it. "I mean—she was kidding," Aria fumbles on her words, not meeting my eyes.

I smile, shaking my head. "No, she is right. I can totally imagine Melissa doing that, and if I'm an exact clone of her now…"

"Spence, don't be too hard on yourself," Aria pleads. "You shouldn't be."

"I just feel like…" I think of what I want to say, "I'm three years behind everyone else. Like, do you remember that exchange student that came junior year? How she was still learning English? I feel like her. I know it's different, but…" I shrug. "I just feel out place, like I'm not fit chronologically. There's actually a word for it: _anachronistic._"

Aria stares at me, a faint smile on her face, and a, sort of, beam in her eye. I furrow my eyebrows, "what?"

"I just—I get what you mean, I mean, obviously, I don't get what you mean, but it is like you stepped through time. It's like I'm having a conversation with 2011 Spencer Hastings," she chuckles.

I laugh in spite of myself. Shaking my head, I say, "I don't know what I'm doing, Aria."

"You're trying. Just like you always do, and you'll get through it. You'll conquer it, and kick it in the ass, just like you do everything else."

I give her a grateful smile, but it is only followed up with a frown, "and then what? I go back to being this—arrogant, stuck up, version, Spencer Hastings?"

"You aren't arrogant, Spencer…" Aria declines. I can't tell if she is just saying it because she has to. I'm pretty sure she is. This new Aria has gotten better at hiding her emotions.

"Maybe, not currently. But I was, and will be…" my voice travels into melancholy.

"I'm not saying that you are, but if you really think that, you can change. You don't have to be the Spencer Hastings that threw her engagement party at some overly-priced, snob, restaurant."

"My, my, haven't you gotten wise in the last three years," I smile at her.

She looks conflicted on whether to laugh. In the end, she chooses to just give me a smile.

"It's going to be okay, Spence."

I sigh, letting a little time pass between our dialogues.

"Was I happy before…?"

"Like I said, we drifted…but, you seemed happy," she offers, a shrug accompanying her words.

And isn't that what I always wanted? Happiness. I've always been a fan of John Lennon's words, _"When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down 'happy'. They told me I didn't understand the assignment, and I told them they didn't understand life."_ So, why don't I feel more joyous? Is it because I don't remember the life I had? The apparent happiness I felt? Or is it because I don't recognize the person I supposedly am now? I am not that person—_that person_ is the one who is happy. Once again, I feel like I am watching a movie—watching someone else's life, not my own.

This morning I was so motivated to dive into my forgotten past, but now, I'm not so sure.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for the reviews! :) I really enjoy reading what you think of my story. Keep em' coming. This chapter is shorter than the others. Sorry :(

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Chapter 4

Baggage

Toby Cavanaugh sits at his desk, staring at the sketches in front of him. The sound of his best friend and daughter linger in the background. They are playing some video game. Caleb got her a Wii-U for her birthday, mostly because he wanted to see what the hell it was, and because Toby wouldn't let him get her any other gaming system. Nintendo definitely had the most kid friendly games. As much as Toby was against the stereotype of guys being the only ones to play COD, and any other war games, he did not want his five year old daughter becoming a gamer, just yet. So, Caleb got her a Wii-U. Caleb would never admit to it, but Toby could tell he thought it was pretty cool.

He had finished the blueprints awhile back; he just wanted to perfect them. He isn't sure when he became such a perfectionist in his work. One day, he just found himself up at 2AM, still unwilling to go bed before the design was perfect. He sighs, and slides the blueprints away. He clenches his hands in his hair, his elbows hitting the table, holding him up.

Maybe this is where he went wrong in his marriage—what drove her away. He became a workaholic. But he doesn't see it that way…he just really loves what he does. He has a passion for it. She should understand. She is a musician…sort of. Trying to be, anyways. Currently she is just the band teacher, but, since her new husband is a recording artist, Toby imagines she'll be making a record soon.

He doesn't know if he misses her or not. He just wishes they could have worked it out for Tabitha's sake. Now, she'll have to deal with having divorced parents. She was only four when they broke up. Four year olds shouldn't already have baggage.

Baggage.

Look at him.

He has so much.

No one wants to deal with the amount of baggage he has. He shouldn't get involved with anyone…but he can't stop thinking about her. He thought he was turned off to love, not like Caleb, exactly. But he didn't think he would find anyone to triple his heart rate and give him butterflies. She came out of nowhere, really. Like a rainstorm on the most, sunniest day.

They've been talking a lot more, too. They eat lunch together, sometimes. She'll always make it because he's working, and well, she isn't. He tends to wonder about that, though. What she is doing, living in her parents' house, when she seems to despise them so much? Maybe she doesn't have the financial support to leave. He knows that was a problem for him for awhile. They pretty much steer clear of any serious topics. She still doesn't know he is a father. He still doesn't know what she does for a living.

Maybe he is thinking too much into it. They ate lunch together three times, and had a few short conversations beside that. Maybe she is just being nice. Maybe she does this with all the help.

If they were friends, he would know more about her, right?

More than just her middle name (Jill), her favorite color (orange) and birth date (April 10th)?

He hasn't made a new friend in a while…

Maybe he should finally tell Caleb about all this. See, what he thinks. Except, he knows what he'll say. He'll ask if she is hot, and if so, if he has her number. Toby smiles at his friend's ridiculousness.

Caleb wasn't always like this. In high school, he got his heart broken. He didn't handle the heart break as well as Toby. His girlfriend of three years had broken up with him, telling him that she had bigger and better things to do—things she couldn't do while in a relationship with him. Caleb didn't take it well, and he soon became a dick in regards to girls and women.

He shakes the thoughts away, and joins the two on the couch.

"I beat you again, Caleb!" the little girl exclaims giddily.

"Yeah, whatever," he groans, passing the controller, or whatever you call it, to Toby. He crosses his arms and legs, and sinks into the couch, acting like a five year old. "This game is rigged," he mumbles.

"Its okay, Caleb. You beat me the first couple times, remember?"

"Yeah, twice," he angrily spits out.

Toby laughs, "Good job, Tabs," he congratulates her, pulling her sideways, and into his lap. He looks down at his giggling daughter, "but the question is, can you beat me?" he raises his eyebrows.

"You're the worst at video games. Of course she can beat you," Caleb's voice enters his ear. Suddenly Caleb is sitting up straight, as is his daughter.

"Don't worry I'll go easy on you," she assures him, giggling a little.

"Oh, you will?" he challenges. "Well, we'll just see about that!"

They begin the game, Caleb watching attentively, laughing at how poorly Toby does.

Once again, Tabitha is declared the winner.

"Don't worry daddy," she sets her hand on his arm, a warm smile on her face, "you just need practice. I can teach you, and you can beat Caleb!" she tells him.

"I'm right here!" Caleb shoots up from his seat. "Come on, Tabs, I was on your side."

She shrugs, "I can teach you, too, if you want."

Toby laughs, "Okay, but we're going to have to save it for next time. Sadly, it is already pass your bedtime, and if you stay up any longer, you'll turn into a pumpkin," he tells her.

"That isn't true!" she fights.

"It happened in Cinderella," he tells her in a casual tone. Caleb snickers in the background.

"She didn't turn into a pumpkin, her _carriage_ did," she explains.

"Fine. Well, what happened to her?"

"Her dress turned bad," she murmurs a quick response.

"Okay, well…" he starts, not sure where he is going with this anymore, "if you don't get to bed in time, then you will grow a tail."

"Stop lying, daddy!"

He chuckles, "fine. But you really have to go to bed. It's important for your health," he explains.

"But you and Caleb don't have to go to bed?"

"Yeah, but we are older, and need less sleep. Trust me, after I kick him out, I'm hitting the hay."

"Why would you hit hay?" her face scrunches up.

"It's just an expression. You know, like…saying words you don't actually mean?" he tries to offer a definition.

"I hate expressions. I don't understand why people use them. They should just say what they mean!" she gets a little irritated.

"I know, kiddo, but really, it's time for bed. Stop distracting me," he demands.

"I'm not doing anything!" she proclaims.

He turns off the TV, then the video game system, and hears his daughter's groans behind him.

"Let's go," he says before scooping her up in his arms, not really giving her any choice but to go along with him. Although she is upset she has to go to sleep, she doesn't try to release herself.

"Say goodbye to Caleb," he tells her.

She sighs, "bye Caleb."

"So much enthusiasm," he retorts. He isn't sure if his daughter knows the word's meaning, but Caleb does, and he is left laughing.

With only a little trouble, Toby puts his daughter to bed.

About fifteen or twenty minutes later, he returns to his friend. He slumps on the couch, groaning.

"That kid's got game," Caleb states, making Toby chuckle.

"Yeah, she's pretty good…" Toby states, mindlessly.

Silence.

"Do you think that you'll ever fall in love again, Caleb?" Toby questions his friend.

"I was never in love," Caleb responds.

Toby rolls his eyes.

"Why?" he hears his friend later say.

Toby just shrugs, "just wondering if you'll still be hitting on girls when you're eighty, I guess."

"Girls will be hitting on _me,_" he responds.

Toby laughs, along with Caleb.

"What's up, man?" Caleb asks.

"Just curious, I guess."

"Toby Cavanaugh is never _just curious_," Caleb refutes. "What's going on? Did you find some girl you like?" he questions.

He stays quiet. "I don't know," he finally quips up. "I just feel like there's no point, ya know? I just have too much baggage."

"Everyone has baggage, dude," Caleb responds cynically.

"Are you encouraging me?" Toby sits up, staring at his friend, a wrinkle in his brow.

"I don't really care what you do man, as long as you let me live my hermit life, I'm good."

Toby laughs, shaking his head, "I thought you wanted me as your wing man?"

"You kind of suck at it, anyways," Caleb shrugs. "Tabby probably is better than you at it. She's adorable. Women love children. Well, more so, they see children, they feel depressed because they don't have their own, and then wala, there in my bed."

"Is that why you take my daughter to the park sometimes? To get women?"

"It works," Caleb shrugs.

"God," Toby exasperates, slumping back into the couch. "Remind me to never let you watch her again."

"I'm a great baby sitter," he defends.

"What's your definition of great?" Toby responds.

Caleb rolls his eyes, "if you're just going to insult me, I'm going home," he jokes.

They laugh.

"But really, I think I'm gonna head back to my apartment. I'm so wiped out, I could fall asleep, right here," he stands up, stretching his arms out. He yawns, "see you later, dude."

Toby watches Caleb leave, and wonders if he'll ever trust to give his heart away again.

…

They are eating lunch, and he notes it is their fourth lunch. Four lunches and he still doesn't know who she is. "So," he begins, feeling a little uneasy. "You know what I do, but I don't know what you do—or studying to do—or want to do," he fumbles on his words.

"It's, kind of, complicated," she sighs.

He nods his head, not knowing what to say. She didn't exactly give him a lot to work with. He takes a bite of his grilled cheese.

"Well, maybe you should think about becoming a chef. This is probably the best grilled cheese I've ever had," he notes, taking another bite.

She beams at him, her copper eyes sparkling, and her grin rising to great heights. "Thank you, but it's _just_ grilled cheese," she murmurs, looking down at her plate.

"It's amazing, is what it is," he goes on, taking a sip of his water. He swallows down the liquid and takes in a breath, "I really do feel bad for you making me lunches all the time."

"Don't," she gives him the look she always gives him when he admits his guilt. "I like having lunch with you," she confesses, making his cheeks cover with crimson. He takes a sip of his water, hoping it will wash away the red that colors his face.

"I like having lunch with you, too," he gets out in a nervous matter, gulping as their eyes meet.

He stares away, breaking the trance.

"How about I bring something, tomorrow? I mean, it will be, like, peanut butter and jelly, but, hey…at least I'm contributing."

She laughs. He loves her laugh. It is so joyful—so radiant, he didn't think a laugh could be radiant…but hers is.

"Okay, fine. You bring the lunch tomorrow, if it will help you sleep at night," she smiles at him.

Her smile. God, why did everything about her have to be so perfect?

"Thank God. Now all my restless nights will finally be over," he exasperates.

She giggles, biting her lips, turning her head away.

He wonders if she thinks of him the way he thinks of her.

A sudden confidence shoots through him, "but, actually…I don't think a peanut butter and jelly sandwich will really help my insomnia. I think that I need to do more," he goes on.

She gives him a curious look.

"Maybe we can do lunch…or even switch things up a little, and do dinner, one time, outside of this property line, maybe?"

She stares at him, sucking in a breath. It looks like a million things pass through her at first. His heart races as the time between his rhetoric and hers expands.

"I can't," she looks down.

"Oh," he swallows his disappointment.

"I'm sorry, I just…it's complicated," she sighs.

"It's fine," he gives her a smile. "A peanut butter and jelly sandwich will just have to do for right now, I guess," he offers up, feigning the smile on his face.

She just nods awkwardly, and he suddenly regrets ever asking.

…

The next day, when they are eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he prepared, she brings it up. "Look, about yesterday," she begins, leading in with a dragged out sigh, "It's just…it really _is _complicated. It's not just some lame excuse," she protests.

He stares at her, his sandwich still in his hand. He didn't think he would be stepping back into this conversation. He is still trying to recover from the day old conversation, truthfully. "It's okay," he assures her in a warm tone, even though he doesn't really feel okay at all. "You don't need to explain yourself," he goes on.

"But I do," she sighs, her eyes faltering away. "I just—all we can be is friends," she states.

He thinks it over, and while he is initially saddened to her the words, he decides it is probably better this way. He has a daughter to take care of. His daughter is his life, and any other woman would always come second, "all right," he nods. "Then, friends…" he nods, lifting up a smile.

"You aren't mad?"

He shrugs, "it's probably better this way anyways…" he answers ambiguously, his eyes locking on his sandwich again.

She doesn't ask what he means.

…

Emily Fields sits in front of him, a chai tea latte in hand, and a bowl of salad in front of her. She sets down her latte, and then laughs at one of his Tabby stories. He has always loved her laugh. Emily is probably the sweetest person he's ever met. He's only known her for two years, but it feels like so much longer.

"God, she's so adorable. I need to see her again, soon!"

"I'm sure that can be arranged. She _loves_ you," he smiles at her.

She grins back, but it gradually faces into something somber. "So," she sucks in a breath, "how are you doing?"

"I'm fine," he supplies. "I mean, it sucks a lot less than when I found out she was cheating on me, so…" he offers.

"I'm serious," she tilts her head to the side.

"Me too!"

"Toby," she sighs.

"Really, Em. I'm okay. I don't really even care. Caleb took me out that night."

"Oh God, Caleb? Toby, what the hell did you do?"

"We crashed her wedding, and kidnapped Garret," he responds dryly. A second later he sighs, "nothing! We just got drunk…and I sort of hooked up with someone, but—" he shrugged, fluttering his eyes away.

"That doesn't sound like the behavior of someone who is _fine_," she reprimands him.

"Well, yeah, because I wasn't fine, then. But I am, now," he tells her firmly.

She sighs, and to his delight, she changes the topic, "so, how's the job treating ya?"

"OK," he nods, thoughts of a certain brunette running wild in his mind. He is still trying to convince himself that they are better off friends.

Emily detects something in his words. She is good at that—knowing when you're lying. She is a social worker, and majored in Psychology. She knows how the mind works, and she can spot a liar, or in this case, when someone isn't fully opting up to the truth. "OK what is it?" she demands, an almost tease to her voice. "What's wrong?" she goes on.

"Nothing, really," a thoughtful expression washes over his face. "It is just, there is this girl…and I can't get her out of my head."

"Really, Toby? That's amazing! I'm so glad you are moving on from—"

"She just wants to be friends…" he whisks the smile off the woman's face.

"Oh," she grimaces. "That's not so amazing…" her delicate voice travels softly across the table.

He shrugs, "I think it may be for the better, anyways. I mean, she's like twenty five, I doubt she is looking to be a step-mom."

"I didn't know going on a date with somebody meant matrimony?" she teases, a smirk placed out on her golden face.

"You know what I mean," he chuckles. "It is just better this way," he decides.

"I hope she changes her mind," Emily supports, a warm smile spreading across her lips.

And, God, so does he. This whole convincing-himself-it-is-for-the-better-thing isn't quite working out well for him.


	5. Chapter 5

a/n: thanks for the reviews :) i'm glad you guys are liking it ! And you find out who the mother is in this chapter...hahah. A lot of you guessed it right, so ;)

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Chapter 5

A Game

Apparently Facebook isn't so popular anymore. _Twitter_ and _Instagram_ are the new crazes of media.

She wanted to go through pictures; wanted to see her life in pictures, rather than hearing it through words. Because after all, a picture is worth a thousand words.

The Instagram pictures are mostly of her and Andrew. There is one from the night they got engaged, dozens of comments attached to it.

_"Congratulations!" "It's about time!" "I knew you two would make it!" "You're both so lucky!" "I'm so happy for you!"_

Spencer knows some of them from high school, but the rest are only empty names. Do they even know what happened to her? Did they notice the sudden disappearance of happy pictures from her instagram?

_Happy._

She does look happy in these pictures. But, she has always been good at hiding her emotions. She has always been excellent at it. Not even her best friends (or ex- best friends, she guesses) could detect the pain in her smile, sometimes. She was a master of illusion, and a spectacular actress. She still is, she guesses, but it is different now. She is so much more tired. She is so distraught, and her problems aren't trivial anymore, they are corrosive.

She notices that there aren't any pictures of Aria or Emily or Hanna (well, there is a couple at the beginning, when she first got it, two and half years ago) but then it stops. They disappear among Andrew Campbell, and other prestigious looking snobs (not that Andrew is a prestigious snob.)

She has always been a detective—always mapping out mysteries, and solving them to the best of her ability. She is determined to solve this one.

What happened to her in the years that have gone missing? How did she become this person—this person who appears happy, yet so unappealing?

"Goodnight, Spencer," a voice disrupts her from her brooding.

She steps up to the couch. She isn't sure why. He said goodnight, not_, "hey, let's have an hour long conversation." _He probably doesn't even want to talk to her. She rejected him, and the only explanation she gave was, _"it's complicated_," one of the worst reasoning's there is.

"I didn't realize how late it was," she says, lamely.

"Yeah," he nods. "It's getting to that time of year again where the sun seems to never set," he offers.

She nods, puffing her cheeks out a little.

She wants normality. And it is Friday, which means she probably won't see Toby till Monday, and that is just…unsettling to her. Because he is her friend, but it would be weird asking him to hangout out of this territory because then their friendship would reach a new level. A new level that uncovers secrets, and she doesn't want to reveal any secrets. She wants to stay in this little comfort zone with him.

"Are you busy?" she asks. "Like, tonight…" she elaborates, awkwardly, motioning her eyes away.

"I don't know," his words disappoint her.

She looks up at him, her doe brown eyes staring up with hope, "come on. I'm so bored, and I was gonna order a pizza, and I have no one to share it with."

"You see, we're different, Spencer. If I were in that situation, that would be a pro."

She chuckles softly, "well, it isn't to me. I need someone to share it with. And considering no one else is around, that job falls on you."

He chuckles a little, "I don't know, Spencer…"

"Come on, it will be fun. I'll even get breadsticks, and we can play a board game, or something!" her words are full of vibrance and persuasion.

His eyes line up with hers, and after a second, right after his mouth twitches into something resembling a smile, he says, "yes."

She beams up at him, her smile so wide that it almost runs past her cheeks. "Great!" she exclaims, "I'll order the pizza, and find some board game—preferably one that isn't outrageously boring with only two people."

"Fine, but I am paying for half of it. It's the _least_ I can do."

She rolls her eyes, "because it will hurt your precious masculinity if you don't?"

"No, because I already owe you, like, five sandwiches, and I don't need to a pizza to that, too," he explains.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she chuckles before telling him she'll be right back with the board game of her choosing.

…

They sit at the kitchen counter, a scrabble board and pizza box clothing the granite. Two intense stares hover above the compacted board. The game is close to ending, and the scores are close. Spencer is in the lead, but Toby is close behind. She would never admit to it, but there is a high chance that Toby could beat her. She cannot let that happen. Scrabble is her game. She always wins.

Toby begins to add his tiles to the board, not one tile being left behind. He already has fifty points.

_Oh no._

"_Goofball_?" she questions, her voice laced with incredulity.

"Are you seriously questioning that? After putting down glyceraldehyde?" he counters.

She purses her lips, her eyes fluttering down to the board, instead of the man in front of her.

"By the way, thanks for the G," he states, an amused smile on his face.

He begins counting the letter scores, and she intensely follows him, making sure what he speaks is true.

In the end, his total is 106 points. Blowing her 94 points out of the water.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"I think that's enough of a score to beat yours," he points out.

"It's not over yet," she grumbles out.

He laughs, "aren't you optimistic," he observes.

"Not at all," her hard eyes meet his, "just…confident," she smiles a little.

He inwardly smiles, his eyes challenging hers. Something inside her flutters, and she looks away.

Around fifteen minutes later, Toby is declared winner, making Spencer seethe, and Toby laugh.

"Loser puts it away?" he says from across the counter, a smirk leading on his face.

"Winner shoves it up their ass?" she counters, in a higher than usually pitch.

He laughs again, "wow," he states. "I know I kicked your ass, but don't be such a sore loser," his voice unfolds, as he begins to gather the tiles on the board.

"You did _not _kick my ass," she fights, following his movements, and sweeping tiles off the board and into her hand. "We were close—fifteen more points and I could have—," and then sparks. An accidental hand brush sends her words astray and the fire inside her ablaze. She recoils from his touch, feeling small and nervous, and vulnerable. Is it easy to see her reaction? Are her cheeks beating with the color of love and death and passion? Did the veins in her face dilate, creating the horrid thing known as blushing? Did the same happen to him? She is too afraid to look, "won…" her sentence takes its last breath.

"Yeah," he agrees silently after a moment. "You were close," he admits, beginning to put back the game again.

Spencer nods, still bewitched by the mishap with their hands. God, it shouldn't be like this, should it?

A ringing phone slices through her thoughts. Although, she does not recognize the ringtone. It must be Toby's.

"Ugh, sorry," he murmurs, clearly frustrated, "I need to take this…" he explains.

She continues to clean up the game, occasionally peering up at him every now and then as he talks to someone on the phone.

"Hello?...She's _what?..._What happened? Is she…which hospital?...I'm coming…No, I'm coming—I am _coming. _She is my daughter, too!"

And that's where she tunes out, and keeps her eyes adrift. _Daughter? _Did she hear that correctly? He has a daughter? He is, like, twenty six. How can he have a daughter? Who is the mother? Is he some type of cheater? No, he couldn't be…

He is off the phone in a few seconds, looking beyond anxious and frustrated.

She isn't sure what to say.

"Is everything okay?" she questions, worry in her voice. Obviously it isn't, but that is what people always ask. _How are you_? _What's wrong? Is everything okay? _They are just a way of showing that you care, she supposes.

"Not really," he offers, letting out an unsteady breath before meeting her curious and concerned doe eyes, "my daughter's at the hospital. It is just a fever, but…" he shakes his head, stepping up from the bar stool. "I have to go, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," she assures him, standing up. "Really. You should go," she offers a tender smile.

In a sigh of relief, he offers a thank you.

He rushes out of the house, and out the door.

Spencer already misses his presence.

She cleans the rest of the board game up, and then the pizza.

He has a child. He is a _father_. It seems surreal. He is so young—so much life lies ahead of him, and he has a kid? She can't imagine having a kid at this age, _especially_ right now. She shakes her head. Just another reason why she and Toby wouldn't work (among hundreds), he has a kid. She is the _worst_ with children. She is incapable of talking to them. They never like her.

She walks to the door to lock it, and then she notices the man. His truck still resides upon the grass, the blue sheet draped across the bed. It has been, like, ten minutes. Why on earth is he still here?

She walks outside, both equally concerned and curious.

He is in the driver's seat, looking more aggravated than he did inside. She waits for him to notice her to wave.

He offers a somber wave back, before visually sighing, and climbing out of the truck.

"Is everything all right?"

Clearly, it's not.

"My truck won't start up…" he explains, a wrinkle forming above his intense and concerned stare. He looks back at the beige truck, "I've been trying to work it for awhile. I'm kind of familiar with mechanics, but mostly with bikes. Not his…" he explains, walking towards the hood. He pries it open, and she follows him, staring at the mechanics beneath her eyes.

"I wish I could help, but my level of intelligence doesn't reach this area," she says sadly, staring up at him.

"It's okay," he supplies, staring back at the engine and all that surrounds it. "And it doesn't help that I can't see anything…" he groans.

"I could get you a flashlight," she responds quickly, but then she thinks of something else, "…or I could just drive you." She says it in a small, fluttering, voice. She has driven a couple times since the whole…thing. Her parents don't like when she drives, but she is an adult. She can do what she wants. It is her car.

"Really?" he beams up at her. "It wouldn't be any trouble?" he asks.

"No trouble at all," she says truthfully. She doesn't understand why everyone is so weary of her driving. She learned how to drive at fifteen, not twenty three. "Just, I need to get my keys, and a coat…it is sort of chilly, tonight…" she adds.

"Yeah, of course," he agrees, bobbing his head.

Spencer goes back inside and grabs her keys and jacket. She whispers a farewell to the emptiness of the house, and then makes her way out.

On the way to the hospital, she speaks out the words in a lull, "I didn't know you had a daughter…" she observes, carefully.

"Yeah," he sucks in a breath. "To be fair, I don't know much about you, either…" he counters. Except it isn't venomous or spiteful; it is almost playful. Light and kidding.

"Maybe one day…" she breathes out. She doesn't know why she says it. The thought of exposing herself to Toby is utterly horrifying. She doesn't want to lose his friendship. She needs it. And everything will change if she uncovers the truth of her past.

Silence, again.

"What's her name?" she asks, a little more confidently than her previous question.

"Tabitha, but usually I just call her Tabs, or Tabby…or monkey," he admits the last part in a softer voice than before.

She giggles a little, smiling at the thought of the man next to her having a miniature-female-version of himself.

"She's five," he answers her next question before she can even ask it. "And before you can do the math, I was twenty one when she was born…" he supplies. He keeps talking, and she feels sort of…content at the thought of him opening up. She likes knowing that he feels comfortable talking to her about the real stuff. "We were high school sweet hearts," he supplies. "We got married at nineteen. We weren't planning to have a child at twenty one, but…life happens…" his voice trails into silence.

"Nineteen…" she reflects. "That's kind of terrifying," she admits.

"Yeah…looking back, it is weird. If Tabitha ever got married at nineteen, I would probably have a heart attack."

"How did your parents feel about this whole…marriage?"

"Not happy. Neither of us where ever close with our families, though. We got eloped," he explains. "When they found out—my parents, her parents—they were pissed."

"I bet," Spencer bellows a laugh. "I don't even know what my parents would say if I got eloped…" her voice trails.

And then Spencer remembers she is engaged. _Engaged_. How is she engaged? How the hell did that happen? Was she planning to have kids, too? She is so confused. It isn't like she was full out against marriage, but she wasn't all for it, either. The idea of it was sweet—vowing you'll love someone forever, but people always broke those promises. Like her dad, for instance. He had an affair with the woman next door, and in result of that, spawned a child. Her half brother, Jason.

"Yeah, I don't know. I don't talk to my parents that much. The last few years have been…weird. They kind of like my ex-wife more..."

There is no somber in his voice, or even disdain. He just says it. Says it with hollow words, and void emotions.

"I'm sorry," she feels a need to say it.

"It's fine," he chuckles, shaking his head. "People change," his voice fades into quietness.

"I couldn't agree more," she grimly agrees. If only Toby knew…

They arrive at the hospital, and Spencer is confused on whether or not she should accompany him. Does he want her there? Or does he crave for privacy?

"Did you want me to go in with you?" she asks in a shy voice.

He heaves, "if you want to."

"Do you want me to?" she asks.

He smiles at her, and then ignores the question, "I have to warn you about my ex-wife…" his smile becomes dark. "She is, sort of, —," he struggles for the right word. "She is flat out insane," he supplies.

Spencer laughs a little, "come on, I bet she isn't _that _bad."

"She is," he nods. "She…changed, and became…I don't know. Just, if she says anything to you, don't take it personally, okay?" he tells her.

"Okay…" she replies in a patronizing tone.

They walk out of the car and into the hospital. Spencer follows Toby from there, feeling an urge to grab his hand. She hates hospitals. She hates the color schemes of it. She hates the smell of it. She hates the sounds of it. She hates what happens here. She hates the memories that goes along with the hospital.

She woke up in a hospital. Confused as ever, screaming as some random man kissed her forehead (she later learned that man was Andrew.) She flailed her arms around, her throat exploding with screams as the doctors held her down.

That's when this nightmare began.

They finally reach her room, and Spencer feels extremely nervous all of a sudden. What if his daughter doesn't like her? What if she _hates _her?

She cringes at the thought.

A woman with dark hair and a willowy figure sits on the hospital bed, her back facing them. Her hand is on her daughter's forehead. An olive skin man sits in a chair in the corner of the room. He stands up when he notices the duo in the door way. His dark, unkind eyes examine her. She feels vulnerable all of a sudden. She wraps her arms around herself. Then, he moves his gaze to Toby.

The woman then turns around to look at them. Her eyes skim over Toby, to the brunette bedside him. Her glare is impeccably evil. Her death stare is almost as vicious as Spencer's, but Spencer chooses not to use it. She is here for Toby, not to create unnecessary drama.

The woman steps up from the bed, a wicked smile coming across her face.

"Well, who's this, Toby?" she keeps her eyes on Spencer.

"This is my friend, Spencer. She drove me here. Something was the matter with my car," he explains, a sort of rigidness in his voice. "Spencer, this is my ex-wife, Jenna," he says hurriedly.

Spencer offers a small smile, but Jenna only narrows her eyes.

"Hi, I'm Garret," the olive skinned man comes closer to them. He extends his hand out to Spencer, "I'm Jenna's husband," and then he smiles. But Spencer can't tell if it is genuine.

"How is she?" Toby asks his ex-wife.

"The doctors say she isn't breathing right. They have her hooked up to some machine to help her. Might have to stay the night."

"And do they know what's wrong with her?"

"They're still figuring it out," Jenna says coolly.

Toby goes past her, and to his daughter. Spencer follows him, after making another round of deathly eye contacts from the two.

Toby pushes his hands through the little girl's wavy blonde locks. Her eyes stay closed.

"Daddy's here," he comforts the sleeping girl, "it's okay."

"Toby don't wake her," Jenna's voice interrupts the peace.

He rolls his eyes, a sigh trailing from his mouth. He turns around, "she's out like a light. She isn't going to wake up from a little whispering," he fights.

"She might."

Toby sighs again.

"Okay, well, you saw her. You can go, now," Jenna dismisses him.

As if God granted her a gift, her phone begins to ring. But it is just another struggling thing. She excuses her self, explaining the importance of the call. She ignored his last call, and she can't ignore this one, too.

When she is out in the hall, she answers, "hello?"

"Spencer, where have you been?"

"Home…mostly. I'm out with a friend, right now."

"Which friend?"

"I don't think you know them. Look, Andrew, can I just call you later? I'm not in a spot where I can have a conversation."

"You ignored my call, earlier."

"I'm sorry about that. I was with someone."

"The carpenter?" his voice enters.

What? How does Andrew know that?

"I saw his truck there. When you weren't answering, I got worried. I went over to check on you, but then I saw his truck, and I figured you were already being taken care of," his words drench with envy. "Your father told me, you two were spending a lot of time together."

"Andrew stop. You're making assumptions," she grumbles. She has seen this side of him. Usually he is patient. "Yes, I'm with him. But I really…I just really can't talk right now."

"Fine, Spencer," he sounds angry. "Just call me back when you have a chance," the words sound civil enough, but the viciousness that is laced with them, unsettles her.

She goes back into the room, and it seems the two have waved the white flag. No one is fighting, or speaking anymore.

Toby takes her out into the hall again as soon as she steps through the door.

"I'm gonna stay here the rest of the night. I can have someone pick me up tomorrow morning," he assures her.

"You're staying here all night? With _those _two? That sounds…brutal…"

"Yeah, but she is my daughter. My whole life…" he goes on, glancing at the door. "I would do anything for her," he finds Spencer's copper eyes again.

This brings a smile to Spencer's face. "You're a good father," she tells him.

"I try my best."

"But are you sure you'll have a ride back? I can easily drive you. In fact… I kind of want to. Lately, I haven't really had much to do."

"You won't mind?"

"Not at all. Plus, your truck. You have to come back for it, right?"

"Yeah, that's true," he agrees. "I owe so much to you, Spencer," he tells her.

"It's what friends do," Spencer smiles, squeezing his shoulder.

"See you tomorrow?" he asks before opening the door.

She nods, a smile on her face, "good luck."


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry it took me so long to update. I _really _suck.

But thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed, this story. You guys are amazing. It's nice to know someone likes my dumb writing.

Also, in the first chapter I said Toby has a step sister. And since it obviously isn't Jenna... who do you think it is gonna be? I mean, it's pretty predictable. HAHA. She may appear soon. It's kind of strange. But AU, man. I just wanted to clarify that hahaha.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Hope Breeds Eternal Misery...

"So, when do you think I'll get it back?" the man inquires.

"I'm not sure, _exactly. _I'm only the tow guy. Maybe, a day or three? It depends on how busy we are. The problem is with the fuel, from what I can tell, it's not reaching the engine. Usually that's a pretty easy fix, but it _is _the weekend, and we _are_ closed Sunday. So, if we don't it back to you by today, you won't be seeing this lad until Monday," the teenager pats the truck beside him.

Toby sighs, "_Monday?_ Seriously?"

"You should check out with your insurance company. Sometimes they offer rental cars."

"I don't need a _rental _car. I have another way to get around," the words are quick to leave his mouth. "But this is for my job."

"Well, I'm sorry. I'll try my best, but I really don't have much say around the shop," the younger man shrugs, turning around to make his departure.

Toby frowns as he watches the buck toothed teenager pull away his truck.

Toby turns to Spencer, who has been observing the whole scene silently. "I can't believe this," he shakes his head. "I don't even know how that happened…" he furrows his brow.

"It's a shame they don't perform autopsies for cars, or trucks, in your case, I guess," she offers, a tight smile arranged on her face.

He smiles at her, "too bad," he sighs. "I don't know…" his voice trails, his hand tousling through his hair. He looks away, "this has not been a good 24 hours."

"Is Tabitha any better?" Spencer asks. She didn't ask him on the way back from the hospital. She didn't want to impose, or push him. He had to spend the whole night with those two crazies. He deserved a moment of peace (and a coffee, which she gave him—she even included cream and sugar, and tried to make it a little less strong!)

"Sort of. It's a phenomena. There discharged her this morning, but she's with Jenna, and," he rolls his eyes, "I'm sorry," he looks at her. "I don't want to burden you with all my crap."

"I don't mind," she supplies. "Really, I don't."

He smiles again. It is tired, but genuine.

"Thanks, Spencer."

She nods.

"But maybe another time… I'm sort of beat. I just want to go take a huge nap."

That sound like a marvelous thing to do, but she can't nap. Because she has her therapy appointment in, like, thirty minutes. And she has to leave in ten, or otherwise she'll be late.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"No, I'm fine. You've done enough," he smiles. "I live close by…sort of," he murmurs.

"Are you sure? I'm on my way out anyway…" she offers again.

"No, Spencer, really. You've done enough," he grins, again, this time placing his hand over hers. At the gesture, she shoots her eyes down, feeling the nerves in her hand explode.

He pulls his hand away, "so, I'll see you Monday?" he asks.

She nods, meeting his nervous blues.

/

Dr. Wellington, this time, doesn't open with the customary question. Instead she asks, "have you gotten any of your memory back?"

And Spencer wants to say yes. The word begs to be spoken—for the thirst of life, and touch of the tongue, but she can't say the word. Because it isn't true. And as much as she desires for it to be true, it isn't.

"No."

Her therapist frowns at her, and then looks at her chart. "It's been several months," her therapist states in a pondering tune, sounding to be talking to herself, more than Spencer. She sets her chart down, and clasps her hands together, setting them on her knees. "Spencer, would you be interested in hypnosis?"

"Like…you swaying a watch in front of me, and forcing me to act like a moose?"

Her therapist is not amused. "More like, me, putting you under, and trying to rip the memories from your subconscious."

"How would that help me? I mean…I still wouldn't remember them, right?"

"Well," her therapist begins, "possibly not. But there is a possibility that when I wake up you, you _will _remember them. It is slight, but it _is _a possibility. But that really isn't my objective, Spencer, if I'm going to be honest with you."

"What is your objective then?" Spencer inquires in a small voice.

"I think you are strong enough to hear this. So, I'm going to go ahead and tell you. At this rate… it is very unlikely that you'll be able retrieve your memories. They call it Retrograde amnesia, I'm sure you've heard this term before, due to your condition, but it is unclear to know how severe your amnesia is. Sometimes the memories are able to come back, by looking at old pictures, or mementoes, but that has not worked for you, has it?" and it is a rhetorical question, for she continues, "I want to look into your subconscious, see if I can reach these memories…if I can't…I'm sorry Spencer, but there is nothing, really, I can do to help to regain them. I'm not saying that it is completely impossible to restore them, but if they do come back, it will mostly be because of some item—something that was special to you. Something that brings it all back. But you've been shown mementos, and photos, so I'm not sure if it is even possible, but no one can be sure of the extent of your amnesia, Spencer."

She nods in return to the words, her eyes going vacant. "Okay…do it."

"Are you sure? I can give you some more time to—"

"No," Spencer immediately shakes her head. "No, I'm sure."

It isn't even that she is desperate for her memories, it is that she is desperate to _know. _It is the curiosity—the inherit obsession to know _everything_—that drives her to desire to know. She just has to know. Whether it is good or bad, she has to know. She can't go her whole life without three years of her life. She won't let that happen without a good fight.

As instructed, her therapist goes on to perform the hypnosis.

When Spencer wakes from her unconsciousness, Dr. Wellington wears a frown.

"I'm sorry Spencer."

And that's all she needs to say because there really is nothing more to say than an apology. She doesn't need to go on to tell her it didn't work—and that it doesn't mean there is no chance of her recovering her memory—no, the apology says it all. The apology is enough, and anything else would just be unnecessary.

"We can continue with therapy, if you want, but I don't think we should continue with trying to recover your memory. There isn't anything more I can do."

Spencer doesn't really want to continue therapy, mostly because she has never been a fan of it. She doesn't like being personal. It makes her extremely uncomfortable. She can barely be comfortable with her friends, why should she with some stranger? But, regardless of that, she says, "maybe we can just meet once a month, or something."

And her therapist offers a mellow smile to this, "sure. If that's what you want."

/

When she tells her parents, they (specifically her father) tell her that that is bullshit—her therapist is _obviously _not qualified enough if she cannot retrace her memories. They tell her they'll get her a new one—_a better one; one who actually knows what they're doing, _as her father put it. But she told them no. She likes Dr. Wellington. Sort of, anyways. More than she would like anyone else. She likes that Dr. Wellington doesn't bull shit her—doesn't sugar coat the truth. She _likes _honesty. Her father just grumbles about this, and goes off, mumbling growls of irritation under his breath, and her mother just gives her a pointed look, until she is interrupted by a phone call. (A phone call that is obviously more important than Spencer—because aren't they always?)

Spencer didn't expect her parents to act any other way though. They blamed everyone. Even if it wasn't their fault—they would blame them. They would sue. They would fire. They would do whatever they needed to do to show their blame, and disappointment.

When she told Aria the news, the petite girl prompted the idea of a sleepover.

It was obviously some tactic to cheer her up. She doubted any of them w_anted _to have a sleepover with her. She has seen Hanna and Emily, like, four times, since the whole thing. And she has seen more of Aria, but Aria still wasn't _that_ involved in her life. When they did see each other, it was for the most, two hours. Now, she was offering to sacrifice a whole night for her.

"I don't…you don't have to give up your whole Saturday night for me. Besides, don't you think Hanna and Emily will busy? Aren't you busy?"

"I had plans, but I can easily cancel them. It's no big deal, and if they can't come, then it can just be the two of us. Team Sparia doesn't need no quartet, when they have each other," she smirks, winking.

It produces a laugh from Spencer, which prompts Aria to say, "there. I got you laughing. Now, tell me you'll attend my slumber party."

"Okay, fine," Spencer smiles.

"Great!" the smaller girl exclaims. "I'm gonna go call Em and Hanna, and then I'll tell you how it goes."

"Okay."

Aria goes off to call the other girls, and Spencer can't help but to ponder on why she couldn't just call them in front of her. Was it because she needed to convince them? Convince them to spend time with her? Was she really that terrible?

When Aria comes back, ten minutes later, she has a smile on her face. "Okay!" she begins, "Em can stay the night, but Hanna can only stay for an hour or so. She has plans tonight, and apparently they aren't avoidable."

"Okay," She smiles, sort of surprised. She gets an anxious feeling in her chest. Is it excitement? She thinks it is.

"So, if you want to go home, and do whatever, you just need to come back at 7."

"All right," she nods, stepping up from the bar stool. She bids her farewell to Aria, and happily goes home.

/

Andrew is waiting for her in her parent's living room when she returns.

"Spencer, finally. I've been waiting, like, an hour."

"I was with Aria," she explains.

"Oh okay," he sighs. He grabs her hands in his, "I heard what happened," his thumb brushes against the side of her hand. "I'm so sorry, Spence," he says gently.

She nods, "yeah. It sucks, but," she shrugs. "It isn't like it is impossible to recover my memory. She said it could still come back."

"I think you should listen to your parents," he seemingly ignores her. "You should get a new therapist."

Spencer sighs, "no," and then she pulls back her hand. "I don't want a new therapist. I just…I want some peace."

"I'm sorry about last night," he says after a moment. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. I just…I'm really scared of losing you. You get that, right? You don't even know who I am, and I'm completely in love with you, and it just…it's so hard to not be with you."

She keeps her eyes downcast.

"And, if I'm being honest here…well…" he takes in a deep breath. "I damaged Toby's car. I'll pay for the damage, I will. I just—It was stupid, and immature, and I apologize."

She darts her eyes up, "you did that?"

How did he even manage to do that?

"I'll pay for it. I will, It was a dumb, idiotic, jerk thing to do. I get if you don't want to see me for awhile, I understand. But please just try to understand," he pleas, coming closer to her. She moves back, the disgusted look on her face unfaltering. "I was jealous. And I had a little too much to drink. I shouldn't have been driving…I shouldn't," he shakes his head, throwing away the thought. "I'm truly an idiot, Spencer."

"That you are…" she breathes coolly.

He pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to the woman. She reluctantly takes it. She only does so because she knows it will probably help Toby in the long run, and since this is partially her fault…

"There's a little more than it'll cost in there, I think, but I figure it'll pay for the time I've wasted. Tell him I'm sorry, please."

"Maybe you should do that, yourself." she says evenly.

He sighs, "maybe. But for right now, just give him the apology for me."

"I want you out of my house…" she demands, her voice frightening.

"I understand. But please, Spencer. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry," he sighs, his shoulders slumping down. "I don't like who I am turning into."

…

She debates on telling Toby. Where does she say the money came from? Who the hell is Andrew to her? _Her fiancé? _Her jealous-slightly psychotic- fiancé she doesn't even remember meeting, let alone, agreeing to marry? The whole thing gives her a giant migraine (she gets them a lot.) She debates to call off the sleepover, but Aria put it together, just for her, and canceled plans. She couldn't just bail.

She sighs, looking at the envelope of money. She can't just keep it.

She comes up with a plan. It is a crappy plan, but it is a plan. Hopefully he won't question it.

She calls him, and asks if she can stop by. He did say he lives close. He is curious as to why, but nonetheless, he gives him his address. She tells him that she'll explain once she is there.

His apartment is about two miles from her house. Toby is such a liar. This would be a long walk.

She goes up to his apartment, the money in her purse, and knocks.

He greets her, and then invites her in, and Spencer can't help but let her eyes wander. Looking at the place where someone lives—where they spend the most time (unless those people are Spencer's Parents, whom only spend time in their house for sleep, sometimes not even.) It feels like looking into someone's soul almost. It is so personal, but so open. You can find out a lot about a person through their home, through their belongings.

A week or so after she was discharged from the hospital, Andrew took her to their home. (Yes. They shared one.) It was actually very nice—it was, of course, one of the higher expense apartments. It looked over a small, most likely, manmade lake, and had a balcony to sit out on. She could easily imagine herself on that balcony, drinking coffee, and watching the sun rise. (She woke up early.)

But as nice as it was, it didn't feel homey. There weren't much pictures. Contrary to Toby's apartment, which was decorated with _dozens. _Most of them were of him and his daughter, and in some of them, there were people she didn't recognize. In one, there was an older man, a man who looked like Toby. He had his arm wrapped around Toby, and was holding Tabby in the other. She could only assume it was his father.

"You're probably wondering why I am imposing on your Saturday evening," she begins, taking small steps towards him.

"You're not imposing."

She offers a smile. "Well, this surely isn't the norm."

"No, it's not," he observes, slightly amused.

She sighs, "there's something I need to tell you."

He frowns, "everything okay?"

"Yeah," she nods, "I just—" she takes in a deep breath. "My friend…he was drunk, and being stupid, and he messed with your truck."

It is a stupid, idiotic, lie.

"Oh…"

But he buys it.

"He wanted me to give you this," she pulls the envelope from her pocket, and extends it towards him.

He stares at it.

"He also wanted me to apologize, but I told him that he should be the one to do that."

His eyes raise from the money to Spencer. "I don't know…"

"Take it, Toby. I don't like that he's buying this whole situation off, either. But…just…take it. It's his fault, okay? You shouldn't have to pay for him being an asshole."

Toby sighs, and then finally takes it. He doesn't look in the envelope. He just sets it down on a table next to him.

"Are you mad?" she asks in a small voice a second later.

"At you? No. It's not your fault. At your friend? Well…"

"Don't worry. I'm ,sort of, debating on keeping that name tag for him. It was a really shitty thing to do. Especially when…" and then she stops because she isn't sure where she is going with this. The more she talks about Andrew, the more she lies.

"When what?"

"When, nothing," she sighs. "I just—I'm really relieved you're not reconsidering this friendship."

He smiles. "As I said before, Its not your fault. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"Thanks," she murmurs. "Sorry to make this visit short, but I have to go. I hope the rest of your evening goes well, and void of any more intruders."

He grins, "you were a very nice intruder."

She bites her lip to suppress her growing grin. Her eyes flicker away for a second before she looks up at him, "goodnight, Toby."


End file.
